


Not the Walk-a-Shame

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, In This Universe Reichenbach would have gone down much differently, Inspired by Music, M/M, Misunderstandings, Mrs. Hudson Ships It, Mutual Pining, jealous thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-25
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-06-15 01:34:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15402063
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: John chases some empty dates looking for a relationship that he comes to discover he's already in.++Sherlock pulled back with a gasp. “John.” With the hand on his leg, John could feel the movement of Sherlock’s lower body, trembling and restless. "John.""I know." He let his eyes close, finally feeling that they just might be on the cusp of something wonderful, and he pressed his forehead against Sherlock's. "Feels like home.""So you never actually had a date last night?""No.""You let me think ...""You assumed ..." John chuckled. "By the way, Mrs. Hudson fussed at me on my way in. I think she's concerned I'm going to hurt you."





	Not the Walk-a-Shame

**Author's Note:**

> Set sometime after Scandal in Belgravia, before the fall, before Mary.

John sipped his water, his eyes lingering on the attractive woman across the table. She giggled at his statement, leaned forward, making sure the plunging neckline was not only visible but presented to him. “You have great stories. I can’t imagine what that must have been like,” she said. “Wasn’t it at least a little frightening?”

He’d been describing the explosion on Baker Street, one of the several he could have chosen, that he’d seen on the news that night when - like this night, he was annoyed at his flatmate and looking for non-irritating company - and the lingering scent of smoke that he’d found in his clothes for months. Shrugging, he admitted, “Never quite sure what to expect, those days. Still not, I reckon,” he added and then launched into a quick tale of an unpredictable patient encounter with an emotionally unstable family member.

Her leg brushed against his under the table. He added a few details that were just over the far side of believable, and she didn’t question. Instead, it was almost a simpering request, "Tell me another."

Nope.

The sinking feeling in his chest, that he could tell her anything and get away with it. He embellished then, spinning a tall tale that would have had Sherlock apoplectic, (harmless, he reasoned, just a test of her critical thinking) that left him realising that this would be their last date. He needed someone who offered him a bit more of a challenge.

++

The nurse across from him worked in a medical ICU, where there had been a run of drug overdoses, GI haemorrhage, strokes, unstable drug ingestions, and the random diabetic ketoacidosis patient to keep conversation lively. When John dropped a few too many details about an office encounter (all of it true), she called him on that, questioning the contrived inconsistency as well as his memory. He countered with a story about the time Sherlock needed suturing in their Baker Street flat, and she didn’t care for the ethics, suturing outside of a licensed facility, of his avoiding an A&E for an appropriate patient visit, treating a personal friend.

Sigh. No. He didn't care to become too close to a rigid rule-follower. Not after he'd discovered a thrill and an excitement to occasionally bending (or breaking) of said rules.

When her hand moved to his knee after the dinner plates had been cleared, he tensed and shrugged out from under her touch. For the rest of the evening, he kept his distance, and the hour grew late. He was grateful for the interrupting, if not inappropriate, text message that summoned him home.

++

The Friday evening dinner and a movie would end with John’s sad realisation that she’d talked entirely about herself. All bloody night.

No thank you. One of those in his life was enough, ta.

The Saturday afternoon stroll in a park and picnic dinner on a blanket with wine and strawberries would end with awkward silences and halting conversation. Saturday night he met a few army buddies for pints and met and locked eyes with a patron across the room, flirted a little, she returned the efforts, and he collected a mobile number and a quick peck on the cheek in the hallway between the bar and the front room. “Text me,” she’d said, her face and her smile full of promise.

The phone number led to a few text message conversations, and when she learned he was a doctor, things got much more interesting. For her anyway. And then they got lame, with a few comments about his income (and working part time, it wasn’t all that spectacular) and his intimate knowledge of the female body (which grated on him, the assumption and the impropriety of it all, and then that it would somehow be advantageous for her - whether or not that was true, he found the entitlement galling). When he grew quieter throughout their meet-up for coffee one night, she noticed and then left him in a huff, claiming that he was all talk and no action. While he watched her leave, the waitress brought a refill over, but he declined, paid the tab, and left.

Perhaps time to think in another direction.

++

One of the free evenings, after he and Sherlock’d had dinner together, he settled with a current medical journal while Sherlock flipped through random telly channels, stopping long enough at either the news or crime shows, blasting the poor reporting and the ineptitude of the players. John glanced up, puzzled, when Sherlock had eventually turned the set off with a frustrated punctuation with the remote.

“Problem?”

“Bored.  Care to head out to a club with me?”

Alarm bells sounded in John’s head. “What kind of club?”

“Does it matter? You’re bored too.”

They ended up at a recently refurbished and relaunched bar a few blocks away, with a young crowd, loud music, and an eclectic mix of patrons. They chose chairs at the bar, and John could have melted into the floor when Sherlock unkindly deduced the woman next to him, then proceeded to chat up the bartender, with intent for the win, or so John could tell.  Jealousy began to simmer, and John could feel his jaws clench as the flirting got worse, Sherlock's boldness and the barkeep's flamboyant interest. The man - Rowan or something - grinned broadly when Sherlock asked what time he got done work, and offered his number, but then Rowan cocked his head at John. “I would think he might mind?”

A fit of insanity rushed through John, and he forced himself to override his own dislike of thinking that Sherlock would be intimate with this man. "Oh, not at all. I'll just leave you to it, then." And he tossed a note down on the bar to cover his drink, and probably Sherlock's, and likely because he wasn't paying too much attention, the rest of the patrons sitting there.

The fresh air that hit him was sobering, and the fact that he had left those two behind to finalise plans was, in all likelihood, foolish. The walk home, alone, solitary, was filled with thoughts, analytic of his own jealousy, wishing he'd stayed and declared himself. He needed an outlet.

Desperate. That was the word still echoing in his head when, some time later, he heard the Baker Street steps creak, door open then close, and Sherlock puttering around before going to bed: desperate.

Desperate, desperate, _desperate._

++

A random encounter, a pharmaceutical rep providing breakfast and an inservice one day. John lingered briefly, a patient cancellation, a mildly flirtatious opening that John took a chance on. Some carefully traded banter, conversation lively, a set of sparkling eyes, some telling body language got John to thinking. Coffee later, perhaps, was his suggestion. Jeremy nodded as he packed up his supplies, and they settled on meeting later that day. John was mildly nervous, when his appointments were finally over and he met Jeremy at the cafe down the street. 

Jeremy smiled shyly as John entered, found him, and joined him at the table. A little small talk, and then Jeremy asked, "Not your usual style, is it?"

John ordered a coffee, black with milk. He was still wearing work clothes, trousers, collared shirt, sans lab jacket. Jeremy was now casual - jeans, tee shirt, trainers, his eyes bright and younger appearing. "My style?"

"Picking up a bloke, perhaps." Jeremy seemed tentative. "Or did I misunderstand?"

"No," John admitted. "I mean, yes, not my usual, and no, you didn't misread this."

"I don't bite, you know," Jeremy said, grinning a bit. "Not until I know you better anyway."

Chuckling, John could feel himself relax a little at the teasing. "Good to hear. And slightly alarming."

Jeremy picked up his own mug. "Coffee's harmless, too." They traded words a few minutes, backstories and histories. Jeremy was a research chemist who'd found his niche in sales and marketing and had some family in London; John explained his part time work schedule, along with his connection to a local, consulting detective, that he was an assistant, that he kept a blog. He commented how exciting it was sometimes, his madman flatmate, how clever Sherlock could be. When Jeremy's smile grew a sideways quirk, John stopped mid-sentence.

"What?"

"I know about Sherlock Holmes, at least a little. I uh, sort of ... looked you up." He smiled again, looking away, sheepish. "Overheard a few things, too. Not in a bad way, mind. Just ... you know. It was nothing much." Jeremy looked at him directly. "He sounds like an absolute handful."

John wondered how far outside of London he'd have to go to escape knowledge of his affiliation. "Oh?" There were many things he wanted to say, comments, questions, observations. Or defending himself as he'd done a few times over the years to the Yard, their friends, random clients. Irene. Mrs. Hudson.

"It's fine. I didn't mean to interrupt you."

Shrugging, John steered the conversation back to safe waters, toward something Jeremy had talked about earlier, about something definitely not regarding John or his personal life. They got coffee refills, and eventually Jeremy grew more animated, comfortable, focused, and _interested._ He slid his hand over so that it rested on John's arm, his palm warm over John's elbow. And John tried to like it, truly, tried to lean into it and enjoy, appreciate the strong fingers, the palm, the heat, the awareness of a very male leg just slightly touching his under the table. It was only after getting distracted mid-sentence twice, that he could feel himself giving up. The touch, the intention was just ... _flat_. Not working. Hoping to be casual still, he leaned back in his chair, the distance between them more than just measured in centimetres. He tried to smile and be kind, pulling his arm slowly, incrementally out of Jeremy's reach.

Jeremy, sighing a little then, returned John's sad smile, taking his then-free hand and picking up the cheque from the table, obviously - _message received_ \- in preparation of leaving. Kind eyes bore into John's, and Jeremy spoke low and friendly. "Nothing personal, mate. But I don't think it's me that you want to be having coffee with."

++

John pondered the recent flurry he'd been on, the dates, the blind dates, the set-ups, the women, the man, the history over the past months.

Empty. Hollow. Unsatisfying. Every date, every encounter, every time. The comparison, wanting. The standard, his measuring rod, unachievable.

Every relationship. Save one. No one else ever stood a bloody chance.

++

“Heading out, eh?”  Sherlock’s face, looking at John carefully, scrutinising him from head to toe, his face making it clear that Sherlock found John's outfit terrible. “You’ll not be getting a leg over tonight.”

John could feel his teeth clench, again. He opted not to react to that.

Sherlock, however, couldn’t leave it alone. “You look ... boring. Doddering. Uncertain.” He approached John, stood looking down on him as he continued. “You’re tired. It’s not worth your even going out to pull someone, if all you’re going to get is turned down, frustrated, and come home soon with your tail and your ego between your legs. Even more unpleasant and intolerant.”  He could have added that John of late had been more unhappy and less settled than he’d ever seen him. Sherlock had wondered several times if John was planning on moving out, and even knowing his acerbic comments weren’t helping, he couldn’t seem to stop. “Don’t even bother. You'd have a better chance staying home and trying to pick up, I don't know, _me_." Both of them hesitated, surprised, as Sherlock's words temporarily stunned the two of them. John's eyes clapped onto Sherlock, and before he could find a response, Sherlock recovered, tamping down the fear John could see in his eyes. "You shouldn't go. You could make us tea. Stay home. Watch one of your lame movies.” The pounding in John's ears kept him from hearing the next few insults that flew out of Sherlock's mouth.

John’s mind supplied several replies, all of them starting with bugger or worse. The next response that occurred to him involved perhaps a left hook and a spurting vascular injury from Sherlock’s arrogant nose meeting John's furious fist. Choosing the moral high road, he settled on a hissed, “Piss off,” took his coat, and stomped away. He chose to leave the door open on his exit, not caring a whit that Sherlock certainly didn’t care and may not close it.

His mobile buzzed as he walked to the tube, and he checked. Sherlock of course. **At least unbutton that awful top collar button. And she’s going to turn you down immediately if you can't even manage a genuine smile. SH**

John couldn’t quite help the smirk on his face as he swiped his mobile open to answer succinctly,  **Again, piss off.**

**See you soon, I'm sure. SH**

**Don't count on it.**

++

Unfortunately after only several hours, John was indeed on his own again, having only met Harry for a quick bite, as he’d planned. His frustration in the flat was reaching astronomical proportions, and he was in desperate need of a longer night out, away from the object of his frustration. Sherlock, of course. Talking with Harry, trying to explain it to her, had given him great clarity. Sherlock was frustrating, true. But more than that: his best friend, his desire, his want.

He turned over in his mind what Harry had advised, and while he didn’t think she had her act completely together, in this case, she had asked a couple of insightful questions, smiled silently at his answers, and waited for him to come to the same conclusions. He left their get-together with the inkling that she might be right.

“Leave him, move on, John. Or  _tell him_.” He’d been partially truthful to Harry, hinting that he might be interested in the man, that he was certainly attracted, and that he was concerned it might be getting in his way, interfering too much with both of them, he was distracted, Sherlock more churlish than usual. “It either works, and you have a relationship in the makings. Or it doesn’t work at all, and you move out. Which it sounds like you probably need to do anyway. If you’re already expecting that end, you’ve nothing to lose at this point.” She had poked at him then, always knowing how to push his buttons and was the only one - other than Sherlock - who could get away with it. "You're already miserable. At least my way, you'll know."

After leaving his sister, he stopped in at a relatively crowded sports pub, watched the rest of whatever football league game was still on. He struck up a conversation with a few customers in there, but kept things guarded and light, and overall enjoyed the match. When that had ended very late, actually, he was still reluctant to go home. Sherlock’s "I told you so” was never pleasant, and tonight he was just full stop not in the mood for it. So he ducked into an all-night coffee shoppe, ordered a mug, parked himself in a softly upholstered easy chair in the corner, sipped it until there was a refill proffered, and, with the barista - a familiar face anyway just from stopping in previously - looking on with pity, sympathy, or just indifference, he nodded off. He opened his eyes hours later, the barista standing near his feet. “Mate? Hey. You all right?”

John opened an eye, tried to sit up, found a terrible crick in his neck from the awkward angle he’d leaned his head back, and breathed out a quick, “Sorry.”

“We’re not supposed to let people down on their luck crash here, you should think about moving on.”

 _Moving_ _on_. Harry had given him the same advice.

The barista - Diego, according to the name tag - straightened his apron, topped off John’s mug in front of him. The thick, rich aroma of a fresh brewed carafe greeted John’s nose. “Have some, and then well, have a nice night.” His wrist tipped as he consulted his watch. “Actually, not too much longer and it would be almost morning I suppose now.”

“Yeah, no problem,” John rolled his sore neck, hearing some of the vertebrae grating and clicking together as he did. He’d been leaning apparently with an awkward bend to his shoulder too, and his fingers were slow to regain feeling. “Thanks for the coffee.”

John found his mobile down in battery life, but no messages. He enjoyed the coffee, finishing it rather quickly, then visited the loo. He splashed a little water on his face, but still looked as if he'd been awake most of the night. Or down on his luck as the barista claimed, John thought, appreciating the irony of that concept. The sun was barely ready to rise in the sky, but not a terrible time to be re-entering the flat and just barely beating the sunrise. At least he wasn’t returning after an obvious failed evening. Staying out all night hopefully counted for something, anything, that would possibly keep Sherlock from smirking with that all-knowing arrogance and launching into him with a barrage of insults, deductions, or demands. And the dreaded, I-told-you-so.

Speedy's was just getting started for the day, a few customers, one of whom recognised John and offered a quiet wave of greeting, accompanied by an emphatic gesture at his own hair then nodding toward John. He got the message, smoothing down the apparently wayward swoop of his hair, taming the thick dark blond locks. Bed-head, he hoped was the assumption.

The door off the kerb squeaked a bit, and John was relieved when he could close it behind him. Mrs. Hudson was just opening her own door as he did. There was a look of disapproval on her face, her lips thin as she spoke. "John."

"Morning." He was cautious, wondering at her displeasure.

"Bit late," she accused.

"Or a bit early?" John hoped his smile would disarm her a little. It didn't. "I'm sorry I bothered you."

"Are you quite sure you know what you're doing?"

Rather than misspeak, John frowned a bit, gestured questioningly at her to explain.

"He's been up all night. Stomping and yelling and making a royal ruckus up there."

"I'm sorry, I'll speak --"

She interrupted him, clearly on a mission to berate him. "I've tolerated a lot from you both." She was keeping her voice low and did indeed look quite tired. "But I'll warn you, Dr. Watson, to be careful."

"Careful." John echoed her word, wondering exactly what she was talking about. "Of course, I always am." John was careful, overall. Safe sex only mattered if you were having it to begin with, John thought though didn't grin at his wayward thought. He was certainly careful at work, careful to pay the rent on time, careful ...

"I don't think you understand. He's ..." She pursed her lips again, conveying a bit of anger in his direction. "You're out all night. For some reason, he's let you close enough to ..."

John can feel his breath catching. "To what, Mrs. Hudson?"

"To hurt him, such that he might ..."

"I would never ..."

"Not intentionally." She shook her head again. "But he's not done this sort of thing." 

Her words made John nervous. Had Sherlock begun a relationship with that bloke from the bar, and was he getting into trouble?

"But already, I fear, you've made your choice. Clearly," and she gestured at him, at the doorway, tapped at her watch, managing to scold him yet again with a disappointed huff of air. She was still shaking her head as she closed the door, her expression and voice sad.

Sherlock was actually stretched out on the couch when John slowly opened door to the flat. John’d toed off his shoes at the bottom of the steps, and had crept his way in just his socks, carefully avoiding each step that creaked the loudest. At first glance, Sherlock certainly seemed asleep, his breathing slow, deep, and even.  

His face was relaxed, and John marveled again at the youthfulness that was so prominent when he wasn’t irritated or insulting someone or speaking hostile truths. Soft, relaxed curls artfully disheveled were a bit shorter than he’d worn them before, and his mouth was just barely open, lips parted a bit, the bow at the top arching and plump looking. His mind began to speculate on how kissable it looked and what Sherlock might taste like until he squelched those thoughts. One of Sherlock's hands was over his ribcage, the other up toward his neck, as if John needed additional incentive or reminders to look there. _God_ , his neck was entirely too appealing, much more than he had a right to look any better than he already did. Sherlock’s gold-toe socks poked into the end of the couch, his long legs stretched out. Both Italian leather shoes were laying randomly, carelessly on the floor in front of the couch. Trousers, shirt tails out looser than he would normally wear them, sleeves rolled up.

A voice startled him out of his admiring staring. “I suppose if you have to do the walk-a-shame, I should be at least impressed your clothing isn’t inside out.” Sherlock’s eyes were still mostly closed, his voice rough with sleep. "And you have both socks."

Harry’s admonition came back, chanting _tell him tell him tell him_  inside his head. He managed an internal steeling of his nerves, thought perhaps sleep-deprived and out-of-sorts with the hour might help him overcome his inhibitions and be just bloody out with it. He smiled. “No, sorry. No walk-a-shame today. I’m not hungover, not sneaking in, embarrassed or otherwise.” John set his own shoes down, hung up his coat. “But there was no leg over, no successful pull, as you predicted. So you can be smug, you were right.”

“Then where were you?” The instant-on switch inside of Sherlock activated, and he sat up looking now very interested, completely awake and refreshed with annoying quickness. “No, wait, I already know.”

John sighed, sat down, making an attempt not to get immediately put off. “Go ahead then.” For whatever else went on between the flatmates, which wasn’t much ( _yet_ , John’s mind supplied, knowing that the choice was a showdown of sorts, as the discussion would prompt something one way or the other), he did typically enjoy being the focus of Sherlock’s attention. “Impress me.”

“Coffee shoppe, obviously. Though a bar first, apparently.” Sherlock leaned in, a bit closer, his nose sniffing just a few times, quickly. “Not that awful Well Bean place, too smooth a roasted smell about you.” Sherlock looked him in the eye, took in the angle of his body, the details that only he could see and make something out of. “Brew Cafe?” John hadn't begun to shake his head when Sherlock spoke again, "No, not there." John waited while he realised. "Taylor Street, yes, that's it,” Sherlock said then, and John nodded, impressed and not surprised. “Of course it was, it had to be. And Diego was on tonight, so he let you fall asleep in that corner section of the lounge, woke you before regulars started coming in. Or the manager came on duty.” John’s smile was answer enough, and Sherlock preened.

“How do you know Diego?”

“John,” Sherlock just pursed his lips, didn’t answer the question, just let John make the assumption that Sherlock knew many people in many venues. The narrowing of Sherlock’s right eye and the puzzled look of his brows was something John didn’t see all that often, certainly not as he was directly in Sherlock’s questioning gaze. “Why didn’t you come home?”

“Figured I’d be able to handle your smug face better this morning.”

“All I did was tell you that you weren’t going to ...”

“Yes, I know, though it was included with a barrage of insults, too. But you were right, though I knew that before leaving last night.”

“You knew? So why’d you even bother? Why go out at all?”

"Well, I certainly wasn’t after ... what you thought, last night. I met Harry for dinner.” John quickly and carefully weighed his options, decided he might as well draw his sword, sound the battle cry, and charge up the mountain. Prolonging the process of finding his way, whatever it might be, was only going to make things harder. “And to get away from you.”

A brief but conflicted smile crossed Sherlock's face. “Many people seem to enjoy getting away from me, another skill I seem to have, driving them off.” Sherlock crossed one ankle over another, leaned back in the chair. “But not usually you. So,” Sherlock stared him down, his eyes locked onto John’s face as John fought steadily to return it, not back down, not look away. “When are you leaving, then?”

“What?”

“Leaving. I gather you’ve decided you’re moving out, then. I would really prefer if you can-give-me-a-few-weeks-notice-so-I- _can-try-to-find-another_...” and he began speaking faster and faster, more quietly, his speech devolving into sentences that John could barely understand.

“Sherlock,” John said quietly, interrupting. When Sherlock’s flight of ideas continued, rapid fire, John spoke his name again, louder, then finally reached out a strong hand, squeezed Sherlock’s knee to get his attention, “Sherlock, I’m not moving out. Or, well ... I don’t _want_ to leave.”

“You don’t?” He blinked, long lashes over those striking blue eyes. _“You don’t?”_ Blink, blink.

If John had not picked up on the fact that Sherlock was really, exquisitely nervous, he might have commented on the repetition. Instead, he spoke slowly, “No, I don’t want to leave.” When Sherlock seemed to process that, and had exhaled, marginally relaxed, he added, “But I'm also not sure I can stay. Not the way things are now.”

There was a long pause, and the furrow between Sherlock’s eyebrows was back. “Explain.”

“I am fairly certain, very certain actually, that I am rather... "

Sherlock growled in the silence. "Just bloody out with it."

"Attracted to you. Very interested, anyway. This, living with you, I just can’t... and it’s driving me nutters, being here, and not ..."

"John."

"Sorry, the words are hard. I just want to be able to, maybe, act on it someday.” He saw Sherlock’s sharp inhale. “I’m getting ahead of myself, not that we would... I’m interested in this relationship, this friendship we have, give it a chance, maybe, to develop into something ... more.”

John wasn’t sure if Sherlock was somewhere in his mind palace, but he continued to watch John, silently, listening. So John continued.

“I know what you said at Angelo’s, that you were m-- ..."

"I lied."

"Oh."

"I had my reasons."

"I'm sure. Well, then what I said, but ... " John could see Sherlock tensed, waiting. "So you're --" and he let his hand gesture in idle helplessness between them. "So you're not --"

"Things have changed."

"Okay, well, I'm hoping that maybe over time you might be at least open to something more?”

“You said you’re not gay.”

"I'm not sure that's entirely true." Their positions on their chairs, the energy of the room seemed to be paused, waiting, storm clouds gathering a long way in the distance, that while things were eerily still and quiet now, there was a change coming. A metaphorical quiet rumble of thunder trembled in the distance, low and unorganised, threatening with promise. “Honestly, I think I’ve been bisexual for quite some time, never acted on it. Not really anyway.” He recalled the only time other than Jeremy that he’d come close, long ago, a desperate search for physical connection, but had hit the brakes.

"I was ... worried."

"About what?"

He dug out his mobile, opened it, scrolled through a few screens. "Mycroft sent me this the other day. All I could picture last night was ..." He turned the screen around to show a grainy CCTV image of he and Jeremy. The quality was poor but they were walking somewhat close, talking.

"Oh. Yeah, about that. Nothing. A small flirtation." John snorted a few flat bursts of laughter at himself. "All that did was show me that he wasn't what I wanted." Their eyes met. "That he wasn't you."

"I'm glad to hear that." Sherlock still looked concerned. "You're sure?"

John tapped the image on Sherlock's phone, used his thumb to tag the photo and deftly delete it. "This was nothing. Coffee. And a realisation, like I said, that I have other options, if you know what I mean -"

"A man."

Smile. "Uh yeah, and some ... unfinished business here. Even Harry agreed." It was awkward, the confession, and John could see Sherlock heaving a few breaths in relief. "A few nights back, while we're being honest, I was a little concerned about you and ... Rowan or whoever that wretch was from the bar ...?"

"I, uh... I might have embellished that a bit, set you up, a little. An experiment to see what you'd do."

"Great, ta. Jealous, yes." John grinned as he let his hand wander down Sherlock's arm, not looking to lose the touch, sever the tie. "But here we are."

"I've never," Sherlock began. “There is usually not a lot of patience for a man my age with no experience.”

“If nothing else, I should have proven by now that I’m on the short list of those you find tolerable. And who can tolerate you, by the way. And I’m not put off in the least by your inexperience. For that matter, I’m inexperienced as well, given that I've never ...”

"Oh dear god, please don't finish that sentence!" Sherlock's words came out in a quiet rush.

"I'm also quite patient."

Sherlock shot a rapid look at him from half-mast eyelids, made a face. "No you're not."

"I can be." Both of them shared the glance then, a helpless shrug, recognising the truth with a set of matching grins. "For you, for this, I choose to be patient." John's voice, his tone, his eyes were all quite serious. "It's - _you_ are too important. Worth it."

“So, you’re not leaving?” The fact that he sought clarification was enough to motivate John to action, a demonstration that he meant it. 

“No. Not unless you ask me to. But I can’t stay here without speaking up about what I want. Life is too short, as my sister reminded me.” He reached out to clasp Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock was quiet, unmoving, seated there at an angle from John, his mind obviously whirling rapidly as he considered his situation. Finally, he said, “I can’t say this doesn’t make me a bit nervous, but ...”

“But...” John prompted when Sherlock seemed to stagnate.

“But I trust you.”

From his seat, he slid to his knee, moving closer to Sherlock, leaning down to press their warm lips together, their exhaled breath mingling. Quickly, there was rising heat, the faint tentative intake of breath. Watching Sherlock’s eyes drift closed, he fought the grin and the urgency and the surge of relief that suffused his body. Angling his mouth to allow the deepening of the kiss, he slid one hand along the outside of Sherlock’s thigh, slowly, not looking to alarm him. The other hand stole into the curls behind Sherlock’s head, and he tugged just a little to put their mouths together with more force, stronger, and the result was almost immediate.

Sherlock pulled back with a gasp. “John.” With the hand on his leg, John could feel the movement of Sherlock’s lower body, trembling and restless. _"John."_

"I know." He let his eyes close, finally feeling that they just might be on the cusp of something wonderful, and he pressed his forehead against Sherlock's. "Feels like home."

"So you never actually had a date last night?"

"No."

"You let me think ..."

"You assumed ..." John chuckled. "By the way, Mrs. Hudson fussed at me on my way in. I think she's concerned I'm going to hurt you."

"Are you?" Though Sherlock fired back the question quickly and with a teasing nature, there was an underlying degree of a seriousness too.

"No. Not intentionally." John squeezed Sherlock's hand a bit, then groaned as he rolled his shoulders a bit, still feeling sore from the way he'd passed the evening. Changing the subject, he posed, "Mrs. Hudson also ratted you out. Sounds like you might have been a bit restless last night."

Sherlock tried to look innocent, failed.

"She might have used the word ruckus."

"No comment."

"I'm exhausted, you must be too?"

"Didn't sleep much, now that you mention it. You know, working the ruckus angle here in the flat."

With a grin, John sensed the door of opportunity was open, walked through. "Interested in maybe a nap?" Sherlock blinked again. "Together?"

"Is that a euphemism for something else?"

"No. Not that I know of."

Sherlock brought his hand up slowly, brushed his thumb over John's lower lip. "Sounds like a brilliant idea."

John leaned close, his arm wrapping around Sherlock's back, pulling their bodies together. "And the best thing about taking a nap together," he paused for a kiss, drawing his mouth across Sherlock's, his tongue coming out to tease, taste, press, "is that eventually people wake up together."

"Is _that_ a slang --"

"No. But it is true, and the sooner we --" John eased back, standing, drawing Sherlock to his feet as well "-- get to bed, sleep a little," and Sherlock smiled in return, his eyes soft and keen, "the sooner we wake up."

"And then who knows what might happen," Sherlock uttered, his voice brimming with low energy.

John's arms wrapped all the way around Sherlock's back then, their bodies fully pressed together, a hug of epic proportions. He could feel Sherlock's warmth, his strength, the way their bodies fit, the press of thighs, knees, chests, Sherlock's long legs. Alive, breathing, warm, secure. "I think we both have a pretty good idea."

John separated enough to step away, still holding Sherlock's hand. Reaching out first to lock the door to the flat, he could see the desire and heat reflected in Sherlock's eyes, knew it was also on his own face. "Yours or mine?"

"Mine." Sherlock's pale eyes riveted into John's and held. With a long-fingered hand, he tucked a hand behind John's head, drawing them close, nose to nose. " _Mine_ ," he breathed again, meaning very clear and having nothing to do with whose bedroom they were destined for. A kiss, deep and sweet. A promise, sealed.

John leaned in too, his arm about Sherlock's waist, secure and steady. "Yes." He grinned, exhausted but at peace. "And mine," he agreed quietly.

++

One floor below them, Mrs. Hudson turned off her mixer, biscuit dough in front of her ready for the baking sheets. She listened intently for a moment, hearing routine noise from her upstairs tenants, water running, toothbrushes, footsteps, muffled talking. She smiled then minutes later at the clearly recognisable moan (John's), the answering keen that could only be Sherlock, the telltale squeak of those old bedsprings. It was going to be a glorious day, finally, one that called for celebratory biscuits indeed. Just as she'd been hoping.

She set out three plates for the eventual gifting of her finished baked goods, one was for her upstairs tenants. The second was for a distant connection, a friend's up-and-coming young professional nephew in the pharmaceutical industry, who'd helped move things along according to her admonition and guidance. Her directions had been clear, and apparently, ultimately effective. She hoped Jeremy liked them. The third plate was for Mycroft. Because he paid handsomely for them.

++

Sunlight was streaming in later that day, illuminating two bodies laying across the top of the sheets, the duvet in a heap on the floor along with various pieces of clothing and socks. There were cooling body fluids, two fully satisfied smiles, a sheen of sweat, and the sound of the occasional sigh as their breathing settled back to normal.

Sherlock muttered a few things, scrambling to find snippets and recollections and reorganise them in his mind palace. Curled on his side, John was still watching him, a sweet smile on his face, when, eyes bright, Sherlock turned to face him.

"I told you earlier, John, that I trust you." With his head on the pillow, Sherlock spoke earnestly as he stretched, his long frame reaching, poking his toes under John's calf. The ruggedly toned muscles of John's calf covered with downy blond hairs looked starkly different than Sherlock's leg, paler, hair darker, muscles more compact and lithe. With a mental shake, Sherlock pressed the more urgent topic back to the present even as he vowed to do an in-depth analysis of their lower legs later. When he was sure John was watching him, attentive, he continued. "Do you trust me?"

John squinted, a frown coming upon his face, recognising the seriousness of where their conversation seemed to be headed. "Can I answer with qualifications?"

"No. It's all or nothing." Sherlock chuckled then, and tried to reassure him. "I mean about the big things, the important matters, when it really comes down to it, do you trust me?"

"Then, yes." Both of them could easily recall the earliest days of the cabbie, John's loyalty, their adventures since that time. John slid his knee to brush against Sherlock's thigh. "Of course I trust you."

"Well, then, there's something you should know. Sometime in the next weeks, I'll be arranging a meeting with a quite clever, evil man. Goes by the name of Moriarty, and it may be necessary for me, for us actually, to ..."

++

~fin~

**Author's Note:**

> Another short WIP that needed finishing, ready for posting. Since starting this, there have been other bigger works that have been completed, and a future one that has been _screaming_ at me to get started on it [ _no, seriously, do you hear that? write me, here's an idea, you could do this, wouldn't it be awesome if ..._ ], but I have set the goal to finish some of the works in progress.
> 
> I could invest another couple of hours and make this smoother, add in more plot (or more smut) but it's at a good stopping point. I am grateful to share it.
> 
> I have edited for typos and blatant mistakes, but they always manage to sneak by. If you see something that is just painfully obvious, please let me know (gently if possible). Thanks for reading this - it's been fun. That wonderfully sneaky Mrs. Hudson...


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